


what light has done to me

by emollience



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura-centric, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, mentions of past allura/lance, mentions of past allura/lotor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 00:24:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emollience/pseuds/emollience
Summary: Somewhere billions of galaxies away, Altea’s debris floats on.*in which allura stumbles on the path to healing.





	what light has done to me

Allura’s last memory of Altea flickers in the flames reflecting off the sheen of her father’s eyes. She still lives this moment — muscles taut, her final plea mid-rise in her throat — when she falls out of a cryo-pod into the arms of an alien. 

Through the haze of fight or flight -- fight, always,  _always_ ; never any other option, not with the Blossom Canyons ablaze, not with the screams of her people, the screech of metal buildings toppling ripping at her eardrums -- she recognizes this: she is one of two Alteans still alive. A Galran fleet draws near. Five aliens she hardly knows are her only chance and if she thinks too long and too hard on the hopelessness of it all, she’d fall to her knees. 

Movements later, while Allura is weighed down by Galran armor, Zarkon towers over her and  _grins_. 

“Would you like to know how your father fell to my sword?” 

 

*

 

Her father’s AI said,  _You don’t have to make this sacrifice._

Her father’s AI said,  _We must do what’s right, even if it means great sacrifice._  

She turns the words over. Dissects them. Sacrifice: the act of offering to a deity something precious; especially, the killing of a victim on an altar. Ancient Alteans drew blood from the skin of their palms and squeezed until the drops splattered into a bowl they offered up to the goddesses for the harvest season. The first Altean monarch, Queen Allura (first of her name), pulled down the neck of her shirt and bared her throat for the Suugslar emperor to slit in exchange for the safety of her first-born daughter.

Alchemy and sacrifice and blood and loss. Flames and screams and war that never ends and a sleep that stretched ten thousand decaphoebs when all Allura wanted was to fight as her mother’s grave burned to the ground. 

Her eyes flutter shut for the Balmera. She watches her father’s AI crack and then break. She pours her quintessence into a teleduv too large until she crumples to the ground. She falls to her knees and bares her throat as the white lion lunges. 

*

 

_Poor Allura_ , Lotor cackles through the feed.   _All the power in the universe at your fingertips and you_ still _fear using it._  

*

 

In the vast unknown of space, Keith’s voice cuts through: 

_Give up?_

Perhaps she can blame it on space madness, the result of the infinite nothingness stretching in all directions with only four other bodies a point in direction, or maybe him lashing out his hurt like the blunt end of a knife. Still running. Always running.

She clenches her teeth and leans in close. 

_You left us._  

 

*

 

The Garrison offers the three Alteans an apartment, one of the few on grounds. Two bedrooms, a bathroom, a small kitchen. Warm, cozy. Before the destruction of the castle, Allura can’t remember ever sharing a room. She turns it down; asks for her own dorm and ignores the concerned stare Coran levels her way. 

Her walls are bare. The sheets a strange fabric she remembers Hunk calling cotton. The mattress barely sinks as she lies down. Odd dots litter the ceiling with absolutely no order and if she squints maybe she can imagine the constellations that glittered the Altean skies. 

She wonders how the other paladins are accommodating; imagines Lance embracing his niece and nephew; remembers Pidge’s running leap at her mother. Somewhere billions of galaxies away, Altea’s debris floats on. 

She inhales. Exhales. She digs the heel of her hand against her numb sternum. 

Too much. Not enough. She leaves the silent room.

It’s easy to find her destination when she finds a map of the grounds at the end of the hall. Even better when she reaches it and finds that the Garrison gym bears no other occupants. 

She doesn’t think for the next few vargas. Her elbows shake on a pushup. The burn and ache of her muscles are familiar. The sweat rolling down the back of her neck, her hairline are a comfort. The arches of her feet strain. She pushes her body up. Breathes loud. The steady hum of the air conditioner almost masks the soft grunts escaping her with every rep. 

She propels herself up and claps her hands. She returns to her starting position. Repeats. Increases the speed. 

_Poor Allura_  -- 

She misses once and that’s enough for her to crumple to the ground, panting loud and hard. Her chest burns along with her arms and back, her stomach is tight. 

She turns onto her back and draws her knees up, planting her feet flat on the ground. She crosses her arms over her chest and pushes her torso up. She clenches her eyes shut; grits her teeth. She counts,  _one, two_  -- 

_I’m not the one that got us cozied up to Lotor._

The memory hits her sharp and visceral, like a slap to the face. It leaves her panting against her knees. She wraps her arms around her legs and keeps track of the slow roll of sweat down her neck and back. Strands of hair stick to her wet face. Her eyes burn. 

“Allura?” 

Her shoulders tense. She looks up, slow, and meets Keith’s stare from the doorway. A towel is slung over his shoulders. He’s in his undersuit, just like her. 

“I, uh,” he fumbles. His eyebrows draw together. 

Eyes still burning, she wipes the sweat from her forehead as she stands. She shoulders past him, face red. He lets her go. 

*

 

Was it worse if she had or hadn’t loved him?

She asks the mice, once, brushing their fur with the extra toothbrush provided in her room. They stare up at her.

_If I loved him_ , she says,  _then I loved a murderer. A liar. I let him kiss me._  A pause. _I kissed him._

The mice say nothing. She sets down the brush. She runs a finger over Plachu’s head and he leans into her touch.

 

*

 

_What if a planet refuses to give up, no matter the cost?_

_If a planet refuses to give up, we annihilate it. But only one planet has ever refused. Altea._

Allura turns off the monitor and utters an apology to the Holts, eyes clenched shut. The walk to the other room is brisk and fast, her hands in tight fists at her sides. 

When she connects the prosthetic to the machines, opens the inside and tinkers with the cables, she regards the crescent shaped wounds on her palms only long enough to wipe the silver blood on her pants. 

 

*

 

Without the crystal, the diadem weighs less. She balances it between two hands. It glints gold under the fluorescent hallway lights. It once decorated her mother’s brow, another inheritance, another reminder. 

_These are our Altean allies_ , Shiro had said. Allura. Not princess. Three stripes decorate her shoulders instead of the two on her paladins’, but she still dons the orange. 

She drops it into an empty drawer and leaves it forgotten. 

 

*

 

She hadn’t loved Lotor. 

He was handsome. Articulate. Every word weighed by meaning, as if he spent an inordinate amount of time searching for the right options, though Allura knew it was a learned skilled, the aftermath of a childhood under Zarkon’s eye. It had been something she distrusted and then envied, still struggling after all these decaphoebs with crafting the best speech for the occasion. And then something she admired. 

She remembers: Her face warm under his gaze, his hand still at her elbow. 

_I couldn’t have done this without you._  

As a child, under her mother’s tutelage, she learned she must seek after a partner worthy of the crown, but she sat in her room, laying on her stomach with her feet in the air and legs crossed at the ankle, watching programs the late queen would’ve shaken her head at. Dramatic romances with passionate confessions and music swelling as the dashing monarch dipped the protagonist for a kiss. A story worth telling. Fate, perhaps. 

And she had thought it as Lotor swept a hand towards what was once Zarkon’s throne room, now decorated in the colors their fathers once wore. Had felt it in the floating stones of Oriande, the sharp edges she once pictured Lotor in softened by the muted pink and violets. 

“I know you loved him,” Hunk says, wrapping Allura in a tight embrace. His fingers tangle in the curls at the back of her head as she hides her face against the crook of his neck. 

She clenches her eyes shut. 

_No_ , she wants to say, _but I could’ve_. Hard to put to words; to explain the ever shifting thoughts and feelings flickering like a kaleidoscope of lights when she thinks back to him, the press of his mouth, his hand on hers. 

Especially when she sits and watches Romelle play with the mice. They adore her; squeak and titter as they bounce from her shoulders, into her hair, running inside of her shirt and tickling her collar and neck. The blue markings on her cheeks flicker bright against the dim lighting of the Garrison dormitory. She wears the pink pajamas Allura loaned her phoebs ago, her ankles flashing when the same pair nearly puddle around Allura’s feet. 

Romelle turns towards Allura, grinning. Platt peeks up from the sleeve of Romelle’s shirt. 

Something tightens in Allura’s chest. A knowing: Lotor nearly kept this from her. 

 

*

 

As the robot explodes out of Earth’s range and the beam of white expands, Allura does not close her eyes. 

 

*

 

The Garrison doctors aren’t quite sure what to do with her. In careful voices, they explain their reluctance to perform any invasive procedures due to her alien physiology. They had heard two heartbeats, before, and balked. 

She’s exhausted and sore and bruised. Aching in a way that’s becoming increasingly familiar. 

And so she heals herself, slowly and methodically. A soft white glow encases her hands and she works through herself from the neck down. Pinpricks of pain flare across as she mends the broken ribs and the sprained ankle. It takes quintants. 

One morning she wakes up to the panicked hush of conversation outside her door. Her ears twitch. Before she gathers her bearings enough to discern who’s outside, a bright burst of light manifests past the foot of her bed. 

Keith, hunched over, one hand on Kosmo’s head. The wolf wags his tail and then disappears once more. 

“He just…does that. Y’know.” 

A bandage is wrapped around his head. 

“Come here,” she says, sitting up. Her ribs ache. Keith hesitates, but does as she says, sitting next to her when she scoots aside for him. He’s careful to keep a leg hanging off the side of the bed. 

She presses a hand to his temple and it glows iridescent white. It overshadows the yellow desert beams of light from the open-curtained window, bathing Keith’s face pale. 

His eyes flutter shut. 

It fades away. 

“How do you feel?” 

Her hand lingers. His eyes stay shut. 

“Better.” 

When she pulls her hand away, Keith wavers and touches her wrist. The scar on his cheek still paints an angry red splice across the otherwise smooth skin. 

“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he says. 

Beneath the tips of his fingers, Allura’s pulse stutters and then rises. 

“There’s no excuse for what I said. And I…I don’t know why I said any of it —” 

She shakes her head. “Don’t lie.” 

He stares down at the bedsheets. 

“You hurt me,” she says. His hand is still at her wrist, a warm weight against her skin. “You knew that those words would.” 

“Yeah.” He shrugs a shoulder in a jerky motion, almost like he’s flicking something off it. The tips of his ears are pink. “You’re right.” 

“Then tell me why.” The soft afternoon light filters through the glass window and splays across his face. Allura leans back against her pillows. 

“I thought we were gonna _die_ ,” he says, voice small, staring down at their hands. “And you were actually — whatever you would’ve said would’ve helped, and I just — All I could do were some stupid discipline exercises and I just — I wanted it all to stop.” 

The anger that radiated so viscerally disappeared somewhere past the exosphere. 

“I’m sorry.” He runs the pad of his thumb over the jutting bone of her wrist. “You deserved better than any of that.”

“Okay,” she says, instead. Their eyes meet. “Can you try to stop running?” 

“Yeah.” He nods, once. And then again, more self-assured. “Yeah, I will.” 

 

*

 

She is three hundred and twenty three decaphoebs old when she first experiences rain. 

She isn’t sure how this translates into human years; only knows that her paladins’ faces blanched when she had answered Admiral Sanda’s question so many movements ago.

(She does not count the ten thousand years spent in sleep, frozen, unalive.) 

Water splatters over her cheeks in fat drops. She tilts her face up, hands folded behind her back, soaked to the skin. The Garrison uniform clings to her limbs. Tendrils of white hair stick to her neck, the corner of her mouth. 

She remembers Coran’s amazed whisper,  _Lance said water falls from the sky on Earth_ , and the way he twirled the end of his mustache as he said it. She clung to it, she supposes, even lost in the vast emptiness of space with nothing to cling onto but her friends’ arms. Something different, comforting. Something to wash over the phantom laughter ringing in her ears.

_I want to see the rain and oceans Blue translates into feeling._

A loud splash followed by boisterous laughter. Allura turns and catches sight of Hunk with his arm slung around Keith’s shoulders. Lance chases Pidge in circles, the two of them cackling and giggling as they kick at puddles. 

She smiles and takes off after them. 

 

*

 

In another reality, perhaps the music soars when her and Lance kiss for the first time. Their lips slot together just fine, and he touches her elbow almost reverently, but it’s a simple press of the mouth. Soft, and warm, and almost like a setting sun over the horizon, except it’s…a kiss and nothing more. 

Even when they pull away, his hand lingers. The same apology pulsing in her chest glints back at her in his eyes. 

 

*

 

“I think we need our own uniforms,” she says from her seat at the table, hands folded on her lap. The officers and generals blink at her. The three golden stripes on the orange curve of her shoulders glint back. “As paladins of Voltron, we are our own militia. Allies to Earth, but not strictly belonging to it.” 

“What do you propose, then?” Iverson steeples his fingers together on the table. 

“Something to let all others know our positions. Perhaps a mesh of both our armors and the Garrison uniforms.” 

The other paladins stare back at her. She straightens her back. 

At the head of the table, Sam Holt nods. 

Allura breathes a sigh of relief and smiles. 

 

*

 

The dress is musty, despite reassurances from Coran that it’s not. Regardless of how much she washes it or whatever perfumes she sprays, the sterilized scent of ten thousand years in a cryo-pod never fades. It lingers at the neck just enough to waft up to her nose in the middle of delegations with the recently visiting allies. 

She stops wearing it. Prefers, instead, to don the new pink, white, and black uniform with the Voltron insignia at the breast that signals _soldier_ instead of _princess_. 

One morning she opens her drawer in search of her earrings and brushes a hand over the gem-less diadem. She stares down at it. It glints back at her like a siren call. 

“Allura?” 

At the door, Keith stares back at her. Kosmo pads across the room and nudges her thigh with his head until she rests a hand between his ears. 

“Sorry.” She shuts the drawer closed. Inhales. Exhales. Kosmo nuzzles her palm, whining. “Let’s go.” 

 

*

 

“Did you ever talk about it?” Keith asks one morning. He’s feeding Kosmo bits of bacon. 

Allura stares down at steam rising from her mug of coffee. This early in the morning, it’s usually only them in the Atlas cafeteria. 

“Talk about what?” 

He glances back at her. 

“A little early to bare our souls, don’t you think?” 

Keith hums back at her. “Maybe.” He gives Kosmo another bit of bacon. “Except I’m starting to realize that maybe I’m not the only one that’s been running all these years.” 

**Author's Note:**

> ok this isn't how i originally planned to start this fic out but here we are!! 3 chapters planned out so far but maybe there'll be more who knows (i sure don't)


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